The girl in the middle up front – Susie or Tammy – shoved a cassette into the deck. It was Devil Without a Cause by Kid Rock. Robbie hated Kid Rock, but somehow the cacophonous horseshit seemed appropriate to the situation. Susie-or-Tammy cranked it up, banging her head in time to "Bawitdaba," her dirty blonde hair rhythmically slapping the headliner.
Robbie’s boner eventually faded enough for him to get out of the car and into the mall without embarrassment (his anxiety was screamingly apparent, however), and he was enjoying the thrill of sauntering through the second-largest shopping center in town with six fabulous girls surrounding him. The place was uncrowded at this time of day. Most people considered Chesbrook Mall the runner-up; if for some reason Lamont Center could not perform her duties as shopping Mecca, Chesbrook would step in – but Robbie suspected this particular center had been chosen by the girls because it contained the Wet Seal store.
A supplier of fine fashions and accoutrements for teenage girls, Wet Seal had haunted Robbie since it appeared in the mall a little over a year ago, a temple for a strange and enigmatic sect. Not only had he never set foot in the place, he was afraid to openly peer inside as he walked past. Furtive glances had revealed shapely young mannequins dressed in tummy-exposing baby-tees and hip-hugging pants, while sleek girls better-suited to crooning bubblegum-pop songs on MTV folded and rotated the stock. Like the Bermuda Triangle, Robbie knew that Wet Seal, once entered, would never allow him to escape.
He had adopted Panda as his official favorite of the group and was sticking close to her as they walked through the food court. Aside from the obvious reasons, Panda just seemed the safest of the bunch: Rox, despite her friendliness, was enormous once she got out of the car, easily topping Robbie’s gangly height by four inches. Lupe and Trouble were simply too frightening, while Susie-or-Tammy had demonstrated that dismaying affection for Kid Rock, and her counterpart Tammy-or-Susie hadn’t spoken a word in front of Robbie but furrowed her brow sternly anytime she caught him looking at her.
As the group came to a stop for Rox to buy an Orange Julius, Robbie risked a look in the direction of Wet Seal. He twitched slightly in anticipation.
"What happened to your face?" Panda asked, startling him.
He quickly turned toward her, feeling caught. "Huh?" he responded.
Panda put a gentle fingertip to the scrape on his cheek. "Right here."
In all the excitement, Robbie had completely forgotten about his run-in with Mike Shiplet. In fact, he had completely forgotten about Mike Shiplet, as if none of the degrading and awful crap that pain-in-the-ass meatneck had put him through had ever happened. The thought overwhelmed Robbie, and he stammered a moment before answering. "I was in a fight," he finally muttered distractedly.
He might as well have said I eat bugs and love it, judging from the look that clouded Panda’s face. Stricken, he desperately searched for a way to make things right. "Well, not really a fight," he settled on. "More like I just got pushed around for awhile." Brilliant. That did a terrific job of making him sound pathetic and weak. Before Robbie could make another recovery attempt, Panda was distracted by Rox’s need for seventeen cents and the moment was lost. Stung, Robbie tried to figure out what he had done wrong – wasn’t being in a fight a solid, manly endeavor? Why had the idea filled Panda with such distaste? And why couldn’t somebody in the know write this stuff down for easy reference? That’s what kids needed more than guidance counselors or child psychologists – a handbook of all the things not to say or do or worry about when you’re a teenager. That and mandatory Karate lessons so everyone would be assured of an ass-kicking if they tried anything on anybody else. It worked for nuclear weapons, after all.
Balled-up by his faux pas, Robbie hadn’t even realized they were on the move again, and now Wet Seal was looming. The fear that he had strained his relationship – or whatever it was – with Panda left him feeling uneasy and out-of-place with the girls, and he began to wish he hadn’t accepted the ride.
All this was pushed from his mind as they neared Wet Seal. Robbie stole his first-ever lingering look at the display window, marveling at the fashions on exhibit there. The girls he accompanied were dressed in a rather stirring manner themselves (heavy emphasis on spaghetti straps and bare bellies), but did parents actually allow their daughters out of the house in the stuff this store was pushing? Robbie’s throat went dry as the import of the moment took hold. For more than a year, he had harbored a secret and unnatural desire to experience the delights this emporium no doubt held; his ardor fueled by thoughts of bell-bottom stretch pants, electric-blue vinyl halter tops, scandalously short mini-skirts. This was the Teenage Girl equivalent of the Pentagon, and he had an all-access pass courtesy of his six lovely traveling companions.
Upon entering, the girls spread out across the store, leaving Robbie pinballing back and forth for a few seconds before deciding to stick with Panda and Rox. Shuffling along behind the two, he was stunned when one of the Wet Seal Girls on duty said hi to him as if he had every right to intrude on her turf. She was quite fetching in her Seal-sanctioned ensemble, her thigh-high stockings a particularly appealing touch. Robbie beamed at her as if she had just rattled off the numbers on his lottery ticket.
Buoyed by this acceptance, Robbie decided to avail himself of an opportunity long dreamed of: he casually strolled into the lingerie section. A lump formed in his throat as he admired the selection of panties offered for sale, delicate items he feared he might never observe in their native habitat. He looked up to find Trouble studying him with amusement. A strangled cluck escaped his throat.
"Come here a minute," Trouble demanded, beckoning with a thin finger. Robbie did as he was told, joining the girl at the makeup counter.
"What were you doing over there?" Trouble asked.
"I dunno, looking," Robbie answered, horrified. Trouble slid a tube of lipstick from the Urban Decay display, palmed it, then stuffed her hand into Robbie’s pocket, leaving the lipstick behind. The blood gushed into his groin so quickly he figured she must’ve felt his penis leap like a startled animal.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, eyes darting back and forth cartoonishly.
"I dunno, stealing," she said. "Shh." Giving him a playful scratch under the chin, she walked away. Robbie stood frozen in disbelief, his pants bearing the oppressive weight of stolen lipstick and a raging hard-on.
It was dark by the time they left Chesbrook Mall. There had been several tense minutes at Wet Seal as Robbie positioned himself behind racks of clothing or crouched to tie his shoes, but as far as he could tell none of the girls had spotted his erection (something that concerned him far more than getting caught shoplifting). Trouble kept giving him funny looks, however, and he suspected she was aware of the riot she had incited in his pants.
Despite the near-disaster, he had conquered his Bermuda Triangle, and what struck him most was that it was just a store. No cryptic handshakes or exchanges of password/counter-password: the only secret he had uncovered was that teenage girls apparently have a ton of money to spend on clothes. He felt foolish for having been afraid to enter the place for so long.
Susie-or-Tammy, her hair once again buffeting the roof of the car as Kid Rock shrieked hysterically about being a cowboy, had insisted on stopping by the Krunchy Freez for donuts. Rox accused her of being pregnant, which made Susie-or-Tammy so mad Robbie thought it might be true; but a dozen donuts, three coffees and four Cokes later they made their way to the golf course near Robbie’s fictitious home. He knew he’d have to spill the beans sooner or later, either that or face the prospect of walking a hell of a long way back to his real house. He figured his parents were already going to kill him; any further time wasted would only make his death more agonizing.
Something funny was going on with Panda, however, and he wanted to see what it was all about.
The sprinklers had come on across the golf course and Rox, Susie-or-Tammy and Tammy-or-Susie had scampered off to play in them. Lupe and Trouble went
along, although they weren’t running through the frigid spray (Robbie didn’t know how the girls could stand it on such a chilly night). The funny part was that Panda had not gone off with her friends, choosing instead to sit in the grass with Robbie and the nearly-empty box of donuts.
They watched the tiny figures squealing and giggling as they ran back and forth in the cold water. "They’re so gonna wish they hadn’t done that," Panda said, looking at Robbie. "Aren’t you cold?"
Robbie nodded. "What’s the deal with Lupe and Trouble?" he asked, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else.
"They probably don’t want all that mascara to run," Panda said.
"No, I mean, why are they all, you know, spooky?"
"They’re not spooky, they’re just kinda mopey sometimes. They’re all psychic-friends and shit, connected at the brain – it’s not like they planned to do the Goth thing, they both just showed up at school one day looking like Marilyn Manson. It never stops. They even get their periods at the same time."
Yikes. Maybe it was time for another line of questioning. Before Robbie could work up anything worth forming into a sentence, Panda reached out to absent-mindedly touch the scrape on his cheek again, pretty much rendering him incapable of thought. Her hand lingered for a moment, caressing his face. It was the most physical contact he had ever had with a girl, other than Trouble’s hand down his pants (which, as physical contact goes, seemed like a good start). Panda stared dolefully at him, one moist, green eye on his wound, the other aimed somewhere in the vicinity of his left eyebrow. Then she suddenly leaned in to plant a tiny kiss on the sore spot.
Robbie felt lightheaded and his ears inexplicably pinned themselves back. He struggled to choose an eye to gaze into, finally settling on the one that seemed to be looking back at him. This was it – it had to be: The First Kiss. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. He swallowed hard.
And Panda settled back on the grass, looking off at the other girls once again.
Wait a minute. That’s not right.
He watched her for a moment. She lipped the straw on her Coke, took a swig. Set the cup down on the grass. Gently scratched an itch on her right wrist.
Nothing goes the way it’s supposed to, Robbie decided. He returned his attention to coming up with something to talk about. "How did you end up with a name like Panda?" he asked. It came out sounding like why do you smell funny and he immediately wished he had phrased it differently.
Unperturbed, she turned towards him again. Her slender, pretty face made him feel like wringing his hands. "My mom miscarried three times before I came along," she said. "She and my dad figured that made me an endangered species." She smiled, delighted that she had been the one who stuck it out.
Then she kissed him.
Dead-on, lips-on-lips, her teeth scraping softly on his mouth as her hesitant tongue daintily tested the waters. Small animals crawled beneath his skin. Blood pounded in his brain, heart and groin. He drew a sharp breath as he and Panda parted, a tiny ribbon of saliva stretching between them, then breaking. The strand of spit glistened on her chin; embarrassed, she reached up to wipe it away.
"We leave you alone for five minutes," Trouble said gruffly, "and you’re practically in each others’ pants."
Startled, Robbie and Panda looked up to find the other girls strolling towards them. Rox, Susie-or-Tammy and Tammy-or-Susie were drenched and shivering, their clothes clinging to them, revealing various undergarments. Tammy-or-Susie appeared offended by the little romantic interlude, her furrow deeper than Robbie had seen it before.
"We’d better get this fella home," Rox said, grinning. "Sorry, Panda." Panda gave her a demure smile, her teeth nudging her lips apart slightly.
Oh boy. Here it comes. "Uh..." Robbie began, dragging it out until it became a groan. "I don’t... really..." searching for the words, finally throwing in the towel: "...live near here."
Tammy-or-Susie’s furrow took on canyon-esque proportions. Panda gave him a surprised look.
"Where do you live?" Rox asked, her foot tapping the damp grass.
"About two houses away from where you picked me up," Robbie said, mortified. "I just wanted to go for a ride with you guys."
Rox took a step forward, towering over him, hands on hips. Her eyes narrowed menacingly. "Then we’re going to have to kill you."
Growling, she leapt on Robbie, rolling him in the grass. It took him several seconds to realize the gigantic girl was only playing with him, then he began giggling uncontrollably. Panda and the other girls (except for Tammy-or-Susie, who didn’t approve) joined in, wrestling and tickling him as the sprinklers hissed to life around them.
His parents went through the roof when Robbie shuffled in around 9:30, soaking wet, covered with mud and grass stains and reeking of perfume. He had never caused them much grief in the past, though, so – although his mother rattled off a laundry list of ridiculous theories as to what he had been up to – he skinned by with being grounded for a week, and since he never went out much anyway, that wasn’t too unbearable.
Undressing, he remembered the lipstick Trouble had stolen. He dug it out of his pocket, peeling the wrapper from his U-No bar away from the metallic tube and leaving a smear of chocolate. Plague, the color was called. Robbie opened it, examining the dark purplish stick. It was Trouble all over. He tossed his filthy clothes in the hamper (withholding his shirt – it still smelled like Panda and Rox and he wanted it with him for awhile longer), showered, and headed for his room.
Setting the tube of lipstick on his bedside table, Robbie picked up his plastic-bagged copy of The Amazing Spider- Man #29 and crawled into bed. Never Step on a Scorpion! the cover blurb admonished, above a drawing of Spider-Man getting pummeled by arch-nemesis The Scorpion. Robbie gazed at the cover for a moment, then let the comic flop back on his chest, focusing his attention instead on the ceiling.
He felt he had been handed something, some knowledge nobody else had. The girls, strange as it seemed, acted pretty much like he and his friends did – the only time they were flaky at all was in the car, when they’d sing along to the tape deck and dance in their seats, giggling and pointing. And that kiss! If that wasn’t a major step into some new and extraordinary world, he didn’t know what was. (It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t thought to ask Panda for her phone number, but the girls had promised to pick him up again soon and he’d do it then.) No doubt about it, he had entered Teenage Girl Central and been welcomed as an ambassador.
Robbie switched off the light and settled his head back into his pillow. For the first time he could remember, he felt a sense of contentment. It must’ve been the way Owen Weaver felt – like there was just something different inside him, something...
Well, something cool.
Robbie ate his lunch outside the next day, staring off across the practice field feeling dreamy and affable and yes, even a bit virile. He was shaken from it when Mike Shiplet punched him in the stomach and stole his Chee-tos.
To The Editors of Teen People is a product of its time — the late 1990s-early 2000s, when the boy-band phenomenon was raging out of control. I didn't have a clue where to even begin submitting this story — as a result, it never went to anyone, but I like it. I even have a half-assed mock-up of the first GETT BUST'N CD sitting around here somewhere, including a booklet of crappy lyrics. And no, you can't see it.
I'm not even sure if TEEN PEOPLE is still being published.
TO THE EDITORS OF TEEN PEOPLE
Dear Teen People:
I don’t know what it is exactly I hope to accomplish with this – maybe it’s a cautionary tale or something. Or a suicide note. Christ.
You know the whole boy-band phenomenon: Backstreet Boys, ‘N Sync, 98 Degrees, Boyzone, O-Town... to this day, I don’t know how many of them there actually are, but it’s a shitload – all of them prancing around like a bunch of Armani-clad candyasses. But I’ll bet my last dollar you don’t remember the boy-band I was in. Does your little sister have any
albums by Gett Bust’N?
I was twenty; living in New Mexico and working for a company that installed gas pumps, underground tanks, that sort of thing. The kind of job that left you exhausted and filthy and reeking of unleaded at the end of every day. It was a piece of shit. I was making a decent wage, but could never stay awake late enough to go blow any of it, so all I ever did was watch television and yank my miserable pud. I had a pretty cool stereo system, though.
Anyway, I’m lying there one night watching a rerun of TRL on MTV, and of course the top ten is nothing but these goddamn boy-bands – either that or the teenybopper pop chicks like Britney and Christina. They broke for a commercial – I don’t know what the cable system you have is like, but the one I had would feed local spots in instead of the network ads – and this ad comes on announcing a talent search for a new singing group. No prior showbiz experience necessary.
All right, I know it sounds stupid, but I had just spent the better part of an hour watching hot teenage girls shriek at a bunch of dancing sissies who didn’t have anything on me other than terrific bone structure. All the manual labor I’d been doing had left me in good shape – thin, but in a lean, Bruce Lee kind of way – and I could bust a solid move or two, so I figured what the hell?
Saturday found me at the mall, standing in this ridiculous line full of pretty boys, male models, skaterkids, and clueless losers. As each guy reached the front of the line, they’d say their name (each audition was videotaped) and then cut loose with a song. You should’ve heard it. Some of them were so pathetic it made me kind of sad, in a way – the hopelessness of it, you know?
Anyway – long story short – I kicked ass and got picked for the group. The mastermind behind it all was a guy named Eduardo Prescott – I’m sure the readers of your magazine remember him, he used to manage Lonely Bull before their lead singer went into hiding after the shark attack.
Tales of Misery and Imagination Page 5